


Sweet Saviour

by italktoomuch



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:04:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5110772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/italktoomuch/pseuds/italktoomuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr Katniss Everdeen is used to saving lives, it’s what she does every day. But after a long, long shift at Pamen University Hospital’s Emergency Department, it turns out that it’s her life that needs saving, and by a completely untrained and unlikely baker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Saviour

Sweet saviour…

Coffee. I need coffee. I sigh and side step easily into the nurses station, picking up my travel mug that I’d hidden under the shelfing, and bringing it to my lips. Twelve hours down, three more to go. It’s just gone midnight, in theory I should finish at 3am but I know that’ll never happen.

A tinny sound beeps and chimes, not very loudly, but my ears are trained and prick up easily at its call. My mug is pushed under and back to its spot and I whip my stethoscope around my neck, pulling my braid around as I walk, heading back to check my patients, thoughts of possible complications and emergencies whirring through my head methodically, my pace strong and confident giving me no need to start and stop. I don’t even think that the sound could be coming from myself until after I am sure all my current patients are okay.

*

I slam my locker closed, not out of anger or frustration (this time), but because it sticks and it needs it. But it is a good excuse for when I am angry. I feel tired and weak and like I don’t want to move, but at the same time, I know I won’t rest, I’m too on edge, still too “on”.

It’s not quite summer yet, and the morning will be cold, so I pull on my sweatshirt over my scrubs, toss my bag on to my shoulder and start walking, yawning as I do and giving a lazy wave to Annie, the receptionist whose boyfriend, Finnick O’dair, a cocky but kind surgeon, stays in the flat above my own. Home isn’t a long walk from the hospital, and it usually helps me become a normal human being again, so I head out into the cold, crisp morning.

It’s just before dawn, the sky still a deep blue but lighter at the bottom where it meets the ground. My breath puffs in front of me and I draw my hoody closer with a shiver, tucking it over my hands. I like this time; there aren’t a lot of people about and I revel in the peace – I feel like I could be the only person in the world. It’s strange, having nearly an entire city sleep while you walk through the streets, but it’s something I love.

I don’t notice really how weak I feel until I pause at the third junction to check for any stray traffic. I had been cold, but now I feel sweaty and not from walking. My hands are shaking, and my legs too, but not from the temperature. I feel dizzy as I stumble to the other side, shaking my head to try to focus my vision, before I place a hand on a low wall.

I can’t sit down, if I do, I’ll have to fight with myself to get back up and I don’t have the time for that. I pull out my kit, fumbling with the cap on the tub and having to prick my finger twice to draw enough blood, my fingers too cold to comply the first time. I can hear my heart beating in my ears and pounding through my chest. Forty-five.

It blinks up at me from the screen before I shove the meter back into my bag, listening for the familiar tune as it sends the reading to-

Do-do-dooo.

As it sends the reading to my insulin pump, clipped on to the waistband of my scrubs.

Of course I would be all out of granola bars the one time I actually need them.

Keep walking, Katniss, it’s no use stopping and dying here. The hospital is the same distance from the flat. Either get home or find somewhere first.

Yes, but where?!

I’m about a minute from having to pick a house at random, waking the owners and begging for a juice box when I see it.

Mellark’s Bakery – Open 24 hours.

If hope could raise my blood sugar, it just did. I blink, read the sign again and keep walking.

I can only hear my breathing, and see the steps I take, my eyes trained on the ground. I don’t really take in much at all until I am pushing open the door and the warmth and the sugar permeate my senses.

It’s empty, but I can hear footsteps. Sure enough, a man pops his head around from the back door, all blond hair and a smile that is much too bright for this time in the morning.

“I thought I heard someone come in - I’ll be right with you, just give me two minutes.”

I open my mouth to speak, to tell him it’s an emergency, but he is gone.

I pull my lip between my teeth and dig out my purse from my bag, propping myself up against the counter, gripping on tightly with my fingers.

I wonder if he serves – yup, tea and coffee. Then he should have a stash of – sugar pouches! I could go and –

“Morning! Sorry about that, it’s only me in just now and I would’ve ruined a whole batch of bread if I didn’t turn it off there. What can I get you?”

I open my mouth to speak, and realise I haven’t even looked at the food in here. Shit.

“What’s the sweetest thing you have?” I ask weakly.

“Well, I have sugar cookies? But then people say the chocolate cupcakes are sweet – but I think I use more sugar in the strawberry – “

“All of them.”

He laughs, but then meets my eyes. “Oh you’re not… Okay, sure. Do you want to take a seat and I can bring them over to you?”

I shake my head, and I feel my eyelids are heavy. “No. Now, I need them, now.” I’m aware that this was too blunt, but I can’t find it in me to explain. And I’m desperate, and irritated.

Silently he reaches into the case and pulls out first the sugar cookie. I take it from his hands before he can set it down. It’s big and warm and I’d probably really enjoy it, if I wasn’t stuffing it into my mouth as fast as I can. He pauses, his eyes shoot down to my hands, where the last remaining piece trembles in my fingers. I stuff it into my mouth and bring up my purse, swallowing.

“Sorry, I’m not stealing them.” The zip shakes in my hand, then I fumble with the notes, eventually pulling out a ten dollar bill.

It doesn’t make more than an inch out of its slot when a warm hand encloses over it.

“Are you okay?”

I hesitate. I don’t like to seem weak, not to anyone, and especially not to strangers. But I’m acting weird, I know I am even if I there is a delay in my brain catching up with my actions, and if I was to get worse, it would be handy he knew.

“I… my blood sugar is low.”

A look of understanding dawns on his face, even though I have given the most basic explanation and left him to fill in his own blanks. He nods and hands me another sugar cookie before he speaks again. “Come, sit down.”

I follow his hand to the first table and chairs, pushing off the counter and flopping into the nearest seat. I’m here for the foreseeable anyway.

When he joins me, he has a selection of cakes and a mug of tea, complete with a pot of sugar packets. “I’ve put three in there already,” he smiles and sits opposite me.

I smile back trying to be grateful, but I am faintly aware of my eyes probably still scowling at him as I pick up three more, tearing off their tops and pouring them in together.

He watches me in silence as I drink the tea, scalding my mouth, but I’m desperate. Two more cookies and the last mouthful of tea later, I start to feel myself coming back. It’s slow at first, like waking up, but the edges of my surroundings become less blurred and fuzzy, my senses sharpen bit by bit, my legs stop bouncing uncontrollably underneath the table, my heart beat stops playing in my ears. And I stop feeling too hot and too cold all at once.

I’ve been avoiding his gaze, watching my fingers instead of his eyes, blue and intense and staring at me. I clear my throat, and look up.

“Thanks,” I manage, awkward and embarrassed. He smiles, and I notice his eyes don’t look at me with too much concern, too much sympathy, like I’m about to break at any point. They are soft and bright and his eyelashes are impossibly long and blond, glinting even in this low light.

“Don’t worry about it. I- I’m Peeta.” He smiles again and holds out his hand. I take it and try to pull the corners of my mouth up to smile back.

“Katniss.”

His hand is warm and strong and calloused slightly, something that I find I like. It matches mine, kinda, the calloused fingertips that I know won’t ever go away now.

“You alright? You look like you’re getting some colour back in your face now.”

I nod. “Thanks. How – how much do I owe you?”

He could tell me three hundred bucks and I’d have to believe him, the last ten, fifteen, twenty minutes seem to be blurring and fading from my memory.

“It’s okay, Katniss. Stay a while longer, until you’re a hundred percent, okay?”

I can’t help but look away from his eyes again, just the way he says my name makes something flutter inside me.

“So, I’m going to take a wild guess here, but… you’re a doctor?”

I puff a laugh down to my hands through my nose. “Yeah. Just finished my shift, never had time to eat…” I shake my head and throw my eyes to the ceiling, scolding myself. I need to sort out that background dose.

“So is this your bakery?”

“Yeah. Well it was my dad’s but I inherited it from him. He died nearly two years ago now.”

I give him what I hope is a sympathetic smile, one that is truly genuine. There is something about this baker. “Sorry,” I say quietly, but he brushes me off with a wave of his hand.

“He was a good man, and he had a good life. Nothing to be sorry about. Where is it you work?”

“Panem University Hospital, Emergency department.”

“Wow, you’re like a real life saver then!”

I blush, and fight the shy smile that pulls at the corners of my mouth. “We do our best.”

“Do you want another tea? I could use one myself.”

I can’t say no to him, and I don’t want to either. “Sure, thanks.”

He nods and stands, fetching two more mugs, placing them in front of us. He doesn’t add sugar, and this time, neither do I.

We’re quiet again for a few minutes, stealing occasional glances to one another and missing each other’s eyes.

“I’m type one diabetic… that was why I was… the low blood sugar, sorry I never actually explained that.”

“It’s okay, I guessed as much… How long have you been…?”

“I was diagnosed when I was six, nearly seven. So eighteen, nineteen years?”

“Wow, that’s a long time.”

I shrug and smile, meeting his eyes again. He makes me nervous and comfortable all at once and it’s slightly unnerving me.

“What does it feel like? I mean, when you came in…?”

He’s exceeding all expectations I have when I tell someone that I’m diabetic. Usually I’d expect pity, confusion – “But you’re not fat!”, or just ignorance, but not this guy.

“When my blood sugar is too low, it’s called a hypo. And I guess it’s different for everyone. But for me, I like to describe it as… as not really being here. Like I know I’m still conscious and awake and functioning, but I’m not really present. I dunno, I’m not good at explaining… weak, shaky, cold, hungry. Someone once said to me that it’s what they imagine dying to be like.”

“Sounds delightful. And here I just thought it was me making you nervous.”

He chuckles, but if only he knew. I bite my lip and drop his gaze. “I-I better get going,” I yawn. “Sorry. I’m just off a fifteen hour shift and…”

“Of course!” He stands with me and I reach for my purse again.

“How much did you say?”

He shakes his head. “It’s on me.”

“No, I can’t let you – “

“On two conditions. One, you come back.”

I laugh, but give a slight, single nod of my head in agreement.

“And two, you let me brag to people that I got to, me a baker, got to save someone’s life… in fact, I got to save someone who is the one normally saving people!”

I laugh again, even though I’m exhausted, and even though we barely know each other. I like him.

“Deal.”

I get home two hours after I was supposed to have finished, but Jo, my roommate, doesn’t even flinch. She works shifts too, though she specialises in cardiology. The light is breaking as I close our door and she whirs passed me, getting ready to leave.

Jo isn’t stupid, not by any means, and nothing can get passed her. Not my cheery goodbye, not my slight blush at the mere thought of the baker, not my smile even after a long, long shift. But she doesn’t ask.

Not until after my fourth trip back to Mellark’s, twelve purchases and exactly seventy-four dollars grudgingly (on his part) exchanged, do I blurt it out to her. Minutes before he knocks confidently on the door to take me out on our first real date.

**Author's Note:**

> This was loosely based on some real life things for me. I’d just like to note, however, that this is by no means medical advice and simply how it sometimes plays out in the midst of a hypo. While I’ve definitely overcompensated excessively for a low blood sugar, I’ve unfortunately yet to meet a Peeta Mellark.


End file.
